


You're My Weak Point

by claimedbydaryl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Smut, or the story of how two idiots risk further injury to fool around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: Michele promised to look after an injured Emil, so he should've at least expected he would have to find creative workarounds for sex.





	

“Don’t move!”

“I’m not!” Emil called out from the living room, although a few seconds later Michele heard the tell-tale sound of him shifting, the couch creaking at the redistribution of weight.

In his haste to return to Emil, he snatched the first ice pack he found in the freezer, slamming the door shut before rushing back to catch Emil’s sheepish, guilt-ridden smile. He feigned innocence as Michele stalked towards the couch, even when twisted to the side, his bandaged foot levitating over a collection of pillows Michele hadn’t constructed to accommodate Emil’s need for elevation before.

“I told you not to move,” Michele sighed. He pulled the coffee table closer to the couch so he could rearrange the mass of pillows into a suitable footrest before guiding Emil’s injured foot into a stable recuperative position atop them. He lowered the ice pack onto Emil’s ankle with a gentle attentiveness, pushing his sweatpants up to reveal the full length of his bandaged foot.

“But you’d already done so much for me,” Emil protested in his weak defence, “taking me to get examined and X-rays, and then going home with me even though you were in the middle of an exercise routine—”

“Emil, stop—”

“And then promising to take care of me when you have training, and I know the Grand Prix is more than six months away, but it doesn’t mean you should—”

“Emil,” Michele repeated. Despite his firm, unbrokered tone, it was the fingers wrapped around Emil’s flailing wrist that caused his rambling to cease, his head hanging forward in defeat.

“You really didn’t need to make such a big deal of looking after me,” Emil mumbled, his usual exuberant voice dull. “I’m going to be fine in a few weeks anyway.”

Michele felt his anger flare for a moment, infuriated that Emil would have such a low self-worth, but the emotion dissipated when he felt Emil tremoring. He heard himself speak in soothing conciliation, releasing Emil’s wrist to tug it towards his chest, cradling the fine bones of his fingers.

“You see, I promised to look after my boyfriend for a while,” Michele said, rubbing a relaxing circle into the skin between Emil’s thumb and forefinger. “And I can go running in the mornings, and the gym and the rink is close enough to spend a few hours training there before coming home to make you dinner. But, right now, all I care about is you.”

Emil’s smile was faint, but genuine, as he looked up from his hand pressed to Michele’s chest. “You’re cute when you’re worried, you know that?”

If Michele wasn’t preoccupied with his current concern of calculating the time until Emil could recover and begin skating again, he would’ve frowned, or otherwise ignored Emil’s offhand comments of endearment. However, for one frightening moment this morning he’d thought Emil had broken his ankle, ending his career in one fatal misjudgement, so he was thankful that Emil still had the energy to joke.

Overcome with a sudden wave of protectiveness he hadn’t felt since Sara had been with him, Michele raised Emil’s hand to his mouth, placing a benevolent kiss across his scraped knuckles. “You’re cute too,” he murmured against Emil’s tender flesh, still bearing the wounds from his bad fall.

Emil’s exhale was an amused breath, too tired to even laugh. “I should get injured more often if it makes you like this. It’s kinda nice to be doted on.”

Like Emil, Michele was also too tired to respond with his usual vigour, instead kissing the inside of Emil’s wrist again. Emil hummed in pleasant contentment, and Michele was relieved to see him sink into the offered comfort of the couch—the events over the course of the day had worn them both thin, too high-strung to even find a semblance of relaxation at home.

“I dote on you,” Michele argued.

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“Do not.”

Michele snorted, and Emil laughed in quick succession. After a moment, Emil quieted, still warm and open with light-hearted amusement, noting Michele’s curious stare trained on him. His hand seemed to burn between Michele’s cocooned palms.

“What is it?” Emil asked.

In lieu of answering, Michele leaned forward to kiss Emil silent. He didn’t say he was just glad to hear Emil laugh in his usual fashion—loud and uninhibited—and decided kissing was a better medium of conversation.

However, when Michele moved to pull back, Emil caught him by a handful of his shirt. “What did you say about doting on me?” He teased, reeling Michele back in for a more insistent kiss. Gone was the gentle, chaste pressure of before, not it was fiercer, a prelude to hotter, wetter things.

Michele didn’t think it was really the best idea to start something here, with a bruised, tender ankle on a couch they had discovered _was not_ big enough for the two of them. But Emil had gone through enough unpleasant medical examinations and disheartening news in the last twelve hours for Michele to refuse him.

Emil coaxed Michele’s mouth open with a hint of tongue at the seam of his lips, making a soft whimper of delight when Michele complied. It still shocked Michele how fast kissing could transition to this—hands curled around his shoulders, a noise akin to a moan escaping Emil’s throat. Michele cursed how his interest was piqued in an instant, knowing now it was clear Emil was not acting in pure intentions. However, Emil had been Michele’s weakness for a while now, and he didn’t have the will nor the want to end this.

Drawing back, Emil said, “So, did you want to—”

“I was going to give you a blowjob,” Michele blurted.

Emil choked, his gaze widening with surprise. His fingers clenched the fabric of Michele’s shirt in a white-knuckled grip.

“I mean,” Michele elaborated, embarrassed, “I was going to give you a blowjob, but the angle is too weird, and I didn’t want to move you from the couch just yet.” He meant if they moved to the bedroom Michele would surely be enticed to fuck Emil, and he was assured that would result in disaster.

“Oh, okay,” Emil said, disappointment evident in his voice.

“But, instead, I thought maybe we could do something like this.” Michele stood up, stepping onto the couch, and with a narrow chance of success he managed to fit into the space of Emil’s spread thighs.

“What about my ankle?”

Michele guided Emil’s leg into a loose curl over his arm. “Here, see, it’s elevated,” he said, satisfied with the alternative, although not optimum, change in position. “Just tell me if it hurts and I’ll—” Emil shifted beneath him, and Michele’s breath was stolen at the sudden burst of friction, his arousal spiking. “Yeah, I’ll figure something else out.”

He swooped down to steal a kiss from Emil—and feeling him grin more than respond to the contact of his lips—before pulling back, his free hand sliding just under Emil’s back. Michele urged Emil’s spine into an arch, and he flexed his hips forward in an experimental roll, grinding their pelvises together. Emil gasped at the direct point of contact, and he uttered the same sound of helpless want, but louder, later when Michele repeated the action with renewed intent.

The angle was awkward, and Michele was assured his arm would ache whenever he bent it for the next few days, but he wanted Emil to feel good. Without a doubt, it was one of the least conventional locations and positions to fool around in, but Michele didn’t have the patience to care about logistics right now.

“You okay?” Michele asked, his brow knit in focused concentration.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just—”

Michele thrust forward, pushing harder and closer into the open space of Emil’s legs to shorten the distance between them. The abrupt influx of heat and pressure was a blinding shock of pleasure, but Michele was adamant on remaining gentle, and he watched Emil’s shuttered expression for any imperceptible sign of discomfort.

“Just kiss me,” Emil said on a high and dreamlike breath.

“Huh?”

“Kiss me, Mickey.”

Michele didn’t have the available time to process Emil’s request before fingers curled in the front of his shirt, jerking him down into an uncoordinated kiss. The movement forced their bodies flush together in searing contact, wrenching a groan from Michele’s throat as he felt the outline of Emil’s cock straining against his sweatpants beneath him.

Alternating the placement of his free hand to find more stable purchase, Michele chose to ignore how each of Emil’s bitten-off gaps and moans elicited a throb of pleasure at his core. Instead, he kissed with finesse, translating his raw, powerful need to rut against Emil in senseless abandon into the demanding press of his lips.

Moaning Michele’s name, Emil’s fingers moved to wind tight over the back of Michele’s neck, holding him firm in place. Closing his eyes for a moment of respite, Michele focused on the rise and fall of his breathing, allowing his arousal to subside through sheer force of will so he wouldn’t come in a matter of seconds, spent in his jeans like some teenager. The feat was near impossible with Emil writhing beneath him, not with his usual verve, but still a distraction of soft, beard-rough kisses and the light press of hands to Michele’s neck, face, arms.

Michele knew he wouldn’t last long, because he never did with Emil—although he didn’t have any prior experiences to base sex on, so maybe that was an accountable factor too. However, Emil had seemed to possess an innate knowledge of how to unravel Michele with touch or words. He could draw rough, characteristic growls deep from Michele’s chest, or make him shiver with the slightest graze of his fingertips. Emil had made reducing Michele to an animal level of desire into an art only he understood.

Or, maybe Michele was just susceptible to Emil, in most—or all—circumstances.

Desperate to expend the powerful build of arousal, coiling at the base of his spine, Michele broke their kiss with a silent reluctance. Emil moved with an instinctive need to follow the path of his wet, kiss-swollen lips, but Michele foiled his efforts by thrusting against Emil again, with enough force that he moved a few inches up the couch. The friction was direct and overwhelming, unmatched to all their previous contact to this point, and Michele had to grit his teeth so he wouldn’t be swept into blind oblivion.

“Mickey,” Emil gasped, his voice high with pleasure—and pain.

“Oh, your foot,” Michele said, halting in his actions to assess the situation, if Emil’s pain eclipsed his wants. “Look, we can stop or move if you want, to make sure—”

“ _No_.”

“Huh?” Michele’s eloquence had always seemed to be lost whenever he was within a short distance to Emil’s cock.

“Kiss me, fuck me, I don’t care,” Emil said, gaze locking to Michele’s with a firm, frightening resolve, “but do not leave this couch.”

“Um—okay. Yeah.”

Michele leaned down to kiss Emil, now gentle, and his grinding gentler too. Indulging Michele’s sudden careful awareness of Emil’s injury, he allowed him a few minutes to kiss with a languid, low-burning passion, before opting for a different approach to their romantic endeavours.

“Mickey?”

“Hmm?” Michele hummed against his lips, dipping his head to line Emil’s pale neck with quick, reverent kisses.

“Touch me.”

Michele’s shoulders tensed, and he drew back to ascertain what Emil asked of him, his answering smile thin and nervous when Emil nodded. He withdrew his supportive arm out from Emil’s injured leg, winding it over his waist instead, and used his freed hand to brace himself over Emil. His other hand hooked into Emil’s loose, drawstring waistband, and Michele’s eyes flickered to Emil once, to ensure his consent for a final time, before tugging his pants down.

Air hissed through Emil’s teeth as Michele’s hesitant fingers circled his erection, stilling, then proceeding to stroke him once, twice, thrice. Emil’s spine bowed in a sinuous bend, his soft cry a noise that travelled straight to Michele’s own neglected arousal. Focusing on Emil—each stuttered gasp of pleasure, each shake and quiver of his limbs—Michele pumped him with an increased fervour, tightening his grip.

Michele was panting, straining with the need to thrust forward again, but his lingering concern to avoid jostling Emil’s leg anchored him in place. Instead, he settled on watching. Emil’s eyes were closed, squeezed shut, but Michele was still unable to look away from him. He had long since discovered that simply watching Emil come undone beneath him continued to be one of the most erotic experiences of his life.

“Emil?” Michele heard himself speak, more instinct than rational thought.

Michele’s inhale was sharp at the sight of Emil’s opening eyes, revealing glass-blue shards bright with pleasure, but warm with obvious affection. One of Emil’s hands—Michele didn’t know which, didn’t know much beyond every point of contact he and Emil shared—reached forward to cup Michele’s cheek, and Michele all but fell forward into Emil.

He kissed Emil once, sweetly, opening his mouth to speak further when he was halted by the recognisable sound of his zipper opening.

“Emil?” Michele’s brow creased in confusion.

“It’s not all about me,” he said, rising to kiss Michele, lips catching the side of his nose.

“But—”

“Don’t you think I enjoy watching you come too?”

Michele’s arousal spiked, wild and animalistic at hearing Emil’s shameless confession, and all thought fled him entirely as Emil’s hand grasped him. He choked on a gasp, feeling his passion swell, rising, pushed near to the brink of oblivion.

There was a whisper of touch to his parted mouth again—Emil might’ve kissed him, but Michele didn’t have the presence of mind to care to know. Michele realised he’d stopped stroking Emil, ignorant of the throb of flesh in his hand, and he forced his focus to centre on finding the will to follow the simple, effective technique he’d been using before. He knew they were both too far gone for artful twists of the hands, having long since passed all theatrics, reduced to the visceral pleasure of touch and feeling.

“Mickey, come here,” Emil said, like an afterthought. “Come—closer.” His breathing was erratic; however, he was near silenced by Michele’s heavy panting, still braced precariously a few scant inches of space above Emil.

“What?”

Emil’s hands abandoned Michele’s cock—he almost whined at the loss—but then it was sliding around to press down against his ass, forcing their erections together in a clumsy union. Emil cried out, the sound smothered under the insistent pressure of Michele’s unexpected mouth, kissing him with a hard-edged desperation, slick and hot.

Both their hands fumbled, awkwardness forgotten in their frantic need to be closer, to chase that spiral of arousal, and then—their hands met, both curling around their cocks to move together. The friction was too good, the air already heady with the sweat-damp musk of sex, and then the pleasure which had built them reached a final, overwhelming crest of feeling.

Michele could do naught but press into Emil, swallowing his moans whole as his body quaked, helpless to the sensation of contact. And Emil gripped onto Michele, so close to losing anchor, continuing to follow the repeated, sloppy motion of their conjoined hands before—

Emil arched into Michele, wetness spilling over their hands as he fell, all logical thought cast aside as he was swept into a blinding river of feeling. His forehead pressed to Emil’s, Michele clenched his jaw as he was vulnerable to the same wracking pleasure of climax, his muscles tightening as he groaned, the sound pulled deep from his stomach.

Emil’s quieting cries were loud in Michele’s ear, and his grip white-knuckled. Staving off the need to collapse into Emil, to bask in the afterglow, Michele settled for pressing his nose into Emil’s neck, inhaling the scent of sex. Emil made a noise of unthinking delight, nuzzling into Michele in return, which was a bad idea, because Michele’s foundations were shaken and—

Michele somehow managed to shift his weight to Emil’s uninjured side, sinking into the back of the couch beside the other man. “You okay?” He asked, noticing the flash of pain contorting Emil’s face for a brief, panicked moment.

“Yeah.” Without the crutch of Michele’s body, Emil lowered his bandaged foot to the pillow rest they had near destroyed in their frantic actions.

“Wait, let me—” Michele moved to leave the couch and offer Emil more room, although he was held still by the arm curled around his neck.

“Don’t move.”

“But—”

“Give me five minutes,” Emil pleaded, his voice hoarse with exertion.

Michele felt his face heat, knowing Emil spoke like that—why he looked like that too, mussed and blissful—was because of him. He nodded in mute acquiescence, shifting to press further into the back of the couch at Emil’s side, so his boyfriend could find a marginal level of comfort despite their tangle of limbs. With the jab of their elbows and whispered apologies, he helped Emil tuck his cock into his ruined sweatpants, also pulling his jeans and underwear up into a semblance of order.

“You sure you don’t want me to get up?” Michele asked, noting the growing feeling of discomfort, his fingers and shirt wet with come. As he expected, his arm had also begun to ache.

“Let me have this, just for a little bit,” Emil murmured, turning to kiss Michele’s nose in appeasement. He smiled when he pulled back, contented.

Michele swallowed, feeling happiness throb beneath his sternum, ignoring the pressing matters of clean up and the melting ice pack on the floor, instead choosing to relax. To enjoy the simple pleasure of being close to someone, of knowing he could reach a healthy medium of dependency and individuality with a person who had his unequivocal trust.

“You okay?” Emil asked, sometime after Michele had curled into his side in silent companionship. His fingers threaded through the short bristles of hair at the base of Michele’s skull in a soothing motion, massaging his scalp.

Michele’s hand slid up Emil’s chest, to rest over the steady lull of his heartbeat. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m fine.” He raised his head, close enough to lean forward and steal a kiss from Emil—which he did. “Just glad you’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> there's a sly reference to mickey being a sweet lil' virgin in this because in the trivia on his wiki page it says he's "canonically described as a virgin" so i'M STILL SCREAMING BECAUSE OF IT.
> 
> join me in ice skating shenanigans on [le tumble](http://diggitydamnsebastianstan.tumblr.com/)!


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